


A Stranger or a Guest

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [20]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Jerusalem, Middle East, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22228804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: When a woman invites a pair of wounded strangers to shelter in her tent during a snowstorm, she quickly discovers her guests are more than they appear.Then the soldiers arrive.A tale of the Assassins.
Series: Crusade [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6874
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: fic is gen and nothing is explicit but there's attempted sexual violence in Chapter Three.

“Be in this world as if you were a stranger or a guest’

-Hadith 40, Sahih al-Bukhari

Chapter One:

_Jebel Ansariyah, December 1191_ _/ Dhul al-Qidah 587._

_Hullah._

The winter wind was savage, as if the war on earth had spread into the heavens.

Hullah barely felt the rough goat-hair rope beneath her hands. Snowflakes brushed her cheeks as she hauled herself along the line towards her tent. Everything was white, like the world was wrapped in cotton.

She stumbled, gasping, as she bruised her shins on rocks beneath the snow. The rope sagged beneath her fingers. For a moment she thought she had pulled the cord loose, but when she tugged firmly she met resistance. The rope held.

A wild gust of wind swept down the valley. Hullah ducked, bracing herself against the gale. She knew that if she let go of the rope she might not be able to find it. Her fingers were already numb. She could walk into the storm and let the winter have its way. On a night such as this, death wouldn’t take long. Somewhere out there in the hills snow shrouded Talib’s grave.

As she stared into the storm she saw something move along the ridge.

She narrowed her eyes and peered into the flickering snow, ignoring the spreading numbness in her fingers. Perhaps Rafi’s sheep had escaped, or ‘Asim’s dog had found its way from his tent. She hoped it was just a trick of the storm. The worst storm for fifty years, said Rafi, and he was old enough to know.

Snow drifted up against Hullah’s legs as the wind stole her clouded breath away. She shivered and pulled her scarf up over her mouth to preserve what little heat she had. Ice crystals formed on the cloth. She was just about to turn away when something moved among the rocks.

At first she thought the shape in the snow _was_ a rock. Then it became a monster from a storyteller’s tale., with a long muzzle, sinuous back, and eight spindly, strong legs. As it came closer, she saw long tails, dark coats and pointed ears. A horse. Her monster was a horse. Two horses, each one with a rider, shrouded in snow as they trudged slowly into camp.

Hullah frowned. Rafi kept two donkeys to haul their tents to richer pasture, but nobody they knew was rich enough to own a horse.

She eased one foot backwards without taking her eyes from the horses. Her feet slipped from under her. Her hands jerked open and her head cracked against a stone hard enough to daze her. She lost track of time for a moment. The frozen grass rattled like bones. Her scarf slipped from her face and the clean, cold smell of snow filled her nostrils.

When she opened her eyes the horses filled her vision. Her flailing hands found the line, and she pulled herself up to a sitting position just as the first horse lowered its head and huffed a soft breath of warm air into her hands. Icicles clung to its muzzle. Then its rider slumped over its neck and collapsed, slowly and without any fuss, to the ground.

The second rider pulled the reins over his horse’s head and slid off, staggering slightly as he landed. “Shelter,” he said, in foreign-accented Arabic. “Please.”

Hullah caught hold of the horse’s bridle. The horse stood like a rock as she pulled herself to her knees and leaned over to check the fallen man. At first she thought he was dead, but as she bent closer she saw his breath smoke in the cold air.

“Is it catching?” she asked.

The other traveller shook his head. “No.”

In his place, Hullah would have lied without a second thought, but despite herself she found herself inclined to take the stranger at his word. If he lied, it was God’s will.

“Help me get him inside,” she said.

Moving him was more difficult than she’d expected, even with the stranger taking most of his friend’s weight. The tent fastenings were broken, so Hullah pinned the flap open with a stone. Their slow progress inside left little heaps of snow that melted on her carpet. Where the men’s heads brushed the sagging ceiling they pressed the tent’s two layers together and left wet patches that dripped into the fire.

Hullah gestured to a spot by the hearth. “Just here,” she said, and felt the sick man stir as they laid him down. The sick man’s companion pulled off his snow-covered cloak. Hullah dragged her quilt and several blankets on top of him. Then she wrapped her hands in blankets and pulled warm stones from the fire.

Her chickens squawked sleepily in the warm gloom in protest at the unaccustomed intrusion. Hullah soothed them with a whistle as she packed hot stones around the blankets. Then she remembered the horses outside. She knew how to tend chickens and cows. What was she meant to do with horses? The beasts had come as far as their riders. They must be just as tired.

The stranger must have sensed her thoughts. He rose. “I’ll see to the horses.”

“There’s a fold around the back,” Hullah said, hoping he could find it in the storm. There should be plenty of room for the horses. She had a few goats, but she’d long since lost her sheep to ‘Asim’s herd.

She pulled the flap closed behind the stranger as he left and weighted it with a stone. Then she went over to check the sick man. 

When she pulled his scarf aside he turned his head away from the fire as if the light hurt him but did not wake. A thick scab edged with congealed blood crossed the bridge of his nose. The blood had settled, and the black circles beneath his eyes were darker than the bruise on his face. There was something terribly familiar about his features, something Hullah couldn’t place.

The stranger had lied. His friend wasn’t sick. He was wounded. Hullah had seen enough beatings in her time to guess the bruises had been meant to punish, not disable. She wondered what he had done to deserve it.

The wounded one inhaled jerkily. Hullah drew back, hoping he wouldn’t die in her tent, but he just rolled over so that his forehead rested upon his right arm and took another ragged breath. Then he settled, breathing with a snore around his swollen nose. 

He slept, breathing evenly, as Hullah added more wood to the fire and coaxed the flame into life. A spiral of smoke twisted up towards the apex of the tent and filtered out between the fabric’s weave. The material flapped against the poles like a trapped bird as a gust of wind caught the tent. For a moment Hullah feared the whole thing would come crashing down on them. She laid a hand on the nearest tentpole and felt the frame quiver beneath the gale, but the pegs held firm.

She put more stones to heat in the embers of the fire. Then she shuffled on her knees to the storage jars and poured water into a pot, thinking of what she had to cook. Her supplies wouldn’t stretch far. She’d have to kill a chicken. There was a young cockerel she’d been saving for better times. The scrawny carcass wouldn’t go far between three, but it would have to do.

She set the pot over the fire to boil just as the tent flap opened with a flurry of snow. The stranger ducked indoors with his arms full of tack and dropped a pile of saddles and bridles on the carpets near the door. He brought more snow indoors than Hullah would have liked, but he stamped his boots and unlaced the sheepskin round his shoulders before he stepped, clothes steaming, onto the island of carpets surrounding the fire. 

Hullah took the sheepskin and hung it with the sick man’s cloak from the ridgepole. The stranger sat awkwardly down on the carpets beside his friend and unwrapped his headscarf. His face showed fading bruises and an impressive black eye that did nothing to detract from strikingly handsome features. He was younger than she’d expected, little more than a boy. His torn and filthy robe had once been white. Now it was covered with several layers of grime. She wondered what they had been doing out there in the in the storm.

“Hullah bint Haris,” she said. “Welcome. My tent is yours.” 

“I’m Ismail,” He nodded at the motionless pile of blankets by the fire. “That’s Malik. Our thanks.“

She expected him to ask where her husband was, or at least wonder aloud why her tent was so empty. Instead he said, “We’ll move on as soon as we can.”

There was only one conclusion that made sense. She asked, “Are you deserters?”

“No.” He sounded shocked. “Why would you think that?”

“You have both been beaten,” she explained. “Besides, nobody would be up here in this storm if they weren’t desperate.”

“You’re here,” he said defensively.

“Our winter camp was overrun by Crusaders. As I say, nobody comes up here. It’s safe. Or it would be, if it wasn’t for the weather. ”

He shook his head. “We’re not deserters. We’re travellers from Jerusalem.”

“In this storm?”

“We didn’t have much choice,” he said seriously. Then he brightened, “But the Crusaders have retreated. Once this storm stops you should be safe to return.”

“They’ll be back,” she said.

He smiled at her as if he expected her to be pleased. “Not this winter.”

Hullah could have wept. If Once the armies were gone, the clan could go down the mountains and settle in their winter camp. Her _iddah_ was nearly over. Without the threat of war, she had no reason to refuse ‘Asim’s advances. 

“You don’t seem pleased.”

Hullah glanced up, startled. “It’s a lot to take in.”

The thought of ‘Asim reminded Hullah that she shouldn’t be alone with two strange men. She crawled over to the door and poked her head out. The valley was a white blur. The visibility was so poor that when she stretched her arm out through the flap, she could hardly see her fingers. She let the flap fall closed. There was nothing she could do about the storm.

She did her best not to resent the strangers’ intrusion as water dripped from their clothes onto her carpets. She’d remained stubbornly alone throughout her _‘iddah_ , despite all Rafi’s arguments, Faiza’s cajoling and ‘Asim’s sly invitations to his tent.

Hullah took refuge in routine. She wrapped her scarf securely around her head and began to prepare a meal. By the time she’d butchered the chicken, the water had boiled, so she tossed the meat in the pot and threw the offal and feathers outside, where the dogs would clean them up in better weather. She added a few handfuls of lentils and some dried herbs from the bundles hanging from the ridgepole. Then she swapped the hot stones over and put the kettle on the fire to boil.

While she did all this the boy tapped his fingers on his knee restlessly, as if he wasn’t used to sitting still. As he fidgeted Hullah noticed that his left ring finger had been sliced off at the knuckle. When he noticed her staring he tucked his hands inside his sleeves, and she wondered if he was self-conscious about the injury.

When the chicken stew was ready she gestured to the heap of blankets. “Will he want any?”

The boy shook his head. “Let him sleep.”

He emptied three bowls of stew, one after the other. Hullah ate sparingly. She covered the pot and set it aside. The food would still be good in the morning. Perhaps the wounded one would be awake enough to eat by then.

By the time they had finished their meal the air in the tent had warmed enough to be comfortable. With two extra bodies, the tent seemed almost cosy. Hullah found herself yawning. The boy rested his chin on his hand and dozed.

Hullah crept outside again to check the weather, but the storm was just as bad. She piled up the bowls and added more wood to the fire. Her woodpile was steadily shrinking, and there were no trees at this altitude. They’d all be in trouble if the storm lasted for much longer. Still, she didn’t regret the warmth. The crackling flames made her feel sleepy, and she closed her eyes for just one moment.

She woke with a start. The fire had burned to glowing embers. The light piercing the tent’s weave outside was dim. The hour seemed late, though that could have been the storm. As she rubbed her eyes she struggled to put her thoughts in order. She’d been a fool, to fall asleep with strangers so near.

The pots were still dirty. She saw the boy wrapped in a blanket, lying exactly where he’d been seated. As she looked around, she saw the wounded stranger leaning up on one elbow with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Hullah tensed. When she reached out for a log of wood she chose the heaviest piece she could find.

“You’re awake,” she said cautiously.

He nodded, wincing. Then he reached up and pulled at the scarf around his neck. It took him a few tries to unwind the cloth. His eyes were dark and his face a little too pale. Again, she was struck by an uncanny resemblance to somebody she only half-remembered. His bruises looked no more prepossessing up close.

“Your friend says you’re sick,” she said.

“Not sick.” he said. His voice was rough. “Just tired.”

It was rude to contradict a guest, so Hullah said nothing. She raised one eyebrow sceptically as she pushed the log onto the fire. He blinked and shifted, angling his head away from the blaze. The boy didn’t stir.

“How’s Ismail?” he asked her.

“Your friend? He’s well.” She indicated the boy. “Sleeping.”

“I’m Malik,” He put his hand on his heart and half-bowed, swaying. “Thank you. We’d have died out there if we hadn’t found your camp.”

“My name is Hullah.” She inclined her head. “And you are welcome.” 

She watched as the man awkwardly unfastened his boots and pulled his glove off with his teeth. When the blanket slipped from his shoulders she realised he only had one arm. She saw no sign of blood. It seemed like an old injury.

It wasn’t until the blaze had kindled that she realised he’d spoken to her in Syriac shepherds’ dialect. No foreigner, then, despite his friend’s exotic accent. Perhaps the boy had spoken the truth. They probably weren’t deserters.

She reached for the stew-pot and hung it over the fire. Chunks of ice swirled in the congealed liquid. The boy stirred, as if summoned by the thought of food. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Is there food?” he said, then “Malik! You’re awake.”

The wounded one winced as he leaned over. His hand moved across his body and clutched his side. “Yes.”

His painful movement put Hullah’s healer’s instincts on alert. She reached for her box of medicines and blew dust from the cover. The familiar sensation of the polished wood beneath her hands helped settle her thoughts.

“I thought you might be dead,” the boy said happily.

“As you can see,” the wounded one said, switching to Arabic. ”I’m not.”

Hullah coughed. “The food will take a little while. I’m a healer. Let me help you.”

The wounded man raised his head. Again, she was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. “I’m just tired.”

“You fell from your horse,” she pointed out.

“Must have fallen asleep.”

This time Hullah raised both eyebrows.

“You should let her,” said the boy.

“It’s not so bad.”

The boy rolled his eyes. 

Hullah raised the lid and removed the first tray from the medicine chest. A strong astringent scent rose up to tickle her nose. She laid the tray aside, taking care not to disturb the bundles of herbs. The second tray was packed with rows of tiny leather bags containing medicines. The third held larger pouches of aloes, salt, and hemp. The last tray held her instruments, boiled and wrapped in scraps of cloth. She poured warm water from the kettle into a bowl and washed her hands. Then she looked at him directly. 

The wounded one held up his hand. “All right,” he said. He took something from his waist and put it down on the blankets, hiding the movement with his body. Then he began to shrug off his robe. Hullah averted her eyes as he peeled his clothes off to his waist, folding each layer down over a thick leather belt. Stripped, he was lean, with enough scars to make her wary. A scatter of bruises scrawled down his left side.

She saw a shallow cut wrapped around his ribs. The wound looked older than the rest. Hullah touched the wound gently and sniffed. She found no hint of putrefaction. “Someone’s treated this.”

He nodded. “A doctor in Jerusalem.”

Hullah felt a moment of brief envy. City physicians had access to herbs and learning she could only dream of. She moved closer and catalogued his injuries. A fresher cut crossed his right shoulder and wept blood when he moved. The worst of all was a stab wound in his left shoulder. That one was much deeper, enough to seriously impair the movement of his left arm if he’d had one. The skin was crusted and blackened, as if it had been deliberately cauterised. The injury had festered, though she saw none of the tell-tale streaks of blood poisoning. She wondered if the burn had been some Crusader’s attempt at medicine.

She poured a handful of salt into the bowl and took some sheep’s wool from her chest. “How did you do this?”

“An accident.” he said.

Hullah’s mouth tightened. She knew what sword wounds looked like. “What happened? Did you fall on someone’s sword?”

He gave her the shadow of a smile but said nothing. The boy’s snicker turned into a hurried cough. Hullah wrung out the wool in her hands and whispered a prayer over the bowl. “Hold still.”

To her surprise, he did. She cleaned the wounds thoroughly but not gently. He endured the cleaning without complaint, though she felt his body tense beneath her hands. When it became clear he wasn’t going to tell her the cause of his injuries she asked, “Did you fight with Salah-al ’din?”

“In a way,” he said. “What do you think?”

It took her a moment to realize he was asking her about his wounds, and another to realize she was being misdirected. “Rest,” she said. “The cuts aren’t bad, but the burn on your shoulder will kill you if you let it. Keep it dry. Don’t travel.” Her eyes flicked to the tent opening, acknowledging the impossibility of her advice. “Or if you do, don’t ride hard.”

He nodded. “I’ll try.”

She made him turn so she could examine his back but found nothing else worth treating. Just as she was about to tell him to put his robe back on she put her hand down on the blankets and felt something move beneath her hand. When she picked it up she found herself holding a blade. The knife was long as her forearm from pommel to point. Its blade was double-edged and blood-grooved, meant to cut flesh. 

The stranger moved too fast for thought despite his injuries. He reached across his body and caught her hand, twisting her fingers until she dropped the blade. She gasped, and he released her hand as if it was a hot coal.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping back into Syriac dialect. He used his right hand to pull his robe up across his shoulders but left the lacings loose. “We’re not soldiers. We won’t hurt you.”

Hullah found this more alarming than if he’d said nothing. In her experience, most people who intended harm first began by protesting that they wouldn’t. 

The wounded one held out his open hand. He picked up the knife very slowly and carefully, as if Hullah was a nervous animal. He slid the knife back into the scabbard at his side, reversed the blade and offered it to her hilt first. “I’ll give this you to keep,” he said. “We can collect it when we leave.”

Hullah cautiously reached out for the blade. The knife was just as heavy as it looked. “How do I know you don’t have more weapons?”

“We don’t,” he said. “I promise.”

Hullah nodded, though she knew there was nothing to keep him from reclaiming the knife any time he wanted. She tucked the blade into her bedroll and handed him the bandages instead of wrapping them herself like she’d intended. Though she expected him to have problems fastening the bandages with one hand, the boy came to his side without being asked, and together they knotted and tied the fabric with the ease of long practice.

As the boy worked, he forgot to hide his hands. Hullah noticed his missing finger. They hadn’t lied, not exactly.

They weren’t deserters after all.

They were Assassins.

Hullah inched back against the tent wall until her shoulder blades were pressed against the fabric. Frosty air chilled her back as she reasoned that she had nothing to fear. Assassins killed sultans and Crusaders. They didn’t bother with poor shepherds. As she stirred the pot at arm’s length she wondered why an Assassin seemed familiar.

The wounded one explored the bridge of his nose gingerly with his fingers. “You’re skilled,” he said, sounding as if he’d expected bloodletting and hot irons.

Hullah sniffed. “We are civilized people. Not Franks. We don’t cut wounds with knives to let the demons out. Whatever they might do in Jerusalem.”

“How did you learn?”

“It was my mother’s trade,” she said, digging in her chest for a piece of willow bark. “Take this. It’ll help with the pain.”

He took the bark and sniffed it cautiously. Then he put the bark in his mouth and bit a piece off. He passed the unchewed portion to the boy. Hullah found the gesture reassuring. She shook her head. “The whole piece. I have more. Enough for your boy too.” She found a smaller piece and handed it to the boy.

The boy took the bark suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Medicine,” said the wounded one.

“Willow,” Hullah corrected.

“I don’t need it,” said the boy, as if being beaten like a drum was no concern.

“Eat it,” said the wounded one. “It’ll help.”

The boy tucked the bark into his cheek as Hullah checked the pot. “Look,” she said. “The food is ready.”

The boy looked eager. The wounded one glanced at the pot and swallowed convulsively. He sighed and lay back down. “Wake me when the storm stops.”

The boy ate two bowls this time, to Hullah’s dismay. At this rate, she’d have to kill another chicken. She ate half a bowl herself, the bare minimum required by courtesy. The stew was even better second time around. 

“ _Daste shom_ _â dard nakone_ ,” the boy said as he set the last bowl down. “Thank you.”

Hullah nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The boy glanced at his sleeping companion. “What was that tongue you spoke together?”

The observation surprised Hullah, who hadn’t thought the boy awake enough to notice. “A dialect of these hills.”

“What did you say?” he asked, curiously.

“He said you won’t harm me,” she said, because she could see no harm in ensuring that he knew it.

“He says a lot of things,” the boy said. “But that is true. We don’t harm innocents.”

“Whom do you consider innocent?” Hullah asked. “We shall all answer for our sins before God.”

He looked uneasy. “But some are more guilty than others. Or so my master used to say.”

“He’s not your master?

The boy shook his head. Then he hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said and rose.

“Where are you going?” Hullah asked him.

He pointed outside. “To the horses.”

Hullah was about to protest that the storm was too bad, but he scooped up the bowls and took them outside before she could stop him. She scattered millet for the chickens. The boy returned after a while with his clothes covered in snow. He put the clean bowls down by the fire, where they steamed. “Do you have a rag?”

She handed him a scrap of bandage from her medicine box. The boy lifted a bridle from the pile of tack and began to clean the leather all over her carpets. The wind outside howled like a mad muezzin. The sound reminded Hullah of her duties.

“It’s time to pray,” she said, “Will you join me?”

The boy looked surprised. “Later.”

His refusal only confirmed Hullah’s suspicions. She prayed as quickly as she could and felt guilty for her haste. She’d seen the strangers fed and rested. Nobody could say she hadn’t performed her duty as a host. She shuffled over to the tent-flap. The air had cleared a little. She could just about see the pyramid-shaped snowdrift surrounding Rafi’s tent.

Hullah got up and put on her shawl. She’d finally run out of reasons not to tell Rafi about her strange guests. “I’m going out.”

“Should I come?”

She shook her head. “Sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

She expected him to protest, but to her surprise he just nodded and went back to his work.

Outside, the snow-covered mountains reared like tufts of wool on the horizon. The snow on Hullah’s clothes had melted in the tent. Her shawl was heavy and damp. She followed the rope past the latrine to Rafi’s tent and reached out to shake snow from the flap.

“It’s me, Hullah,” she called,

The flap loosened and Hullah ducked inside. She shed her layers while Faiza brushed snow from her clothes with gnarled hands that felt like bundles of twigs. “Come to join us, daughter?”

Hullah smiled despite herself. “Not yet,” she said.

“Who is it?” Rafi called from his place by the fire. When he turned towards her his blind eyes gleamed like pearls.

“It’s me,” she said, and saw his gap-toothed smile widen. “Are your eyes getting worse?”

The old man fiddled with a tuft of carpet while Faiza and Izza exchanged worried glances over Rafi’s head.

“I wish you’d let us take you to Jerusalem. There are doctors-“

Rafi reached out and clasped her arm with surprising strength. “Quiet, child,” he said. “I am too old for that. You are the only doctor that I need.”

Hullah sighed. His faith always made her feel inadequate. “I couldn’t save your son.”

“That was the will of God,” Faiza swatted Hullah on the arm. “No fault of yours. There’s no use picking over the past. Have you eaten?

Hullah sat down on the carpet beside them “I cooked before I came,” she explained as Izza pushed a warm cup into her hand. The tea was mostly water, but at least it was warm.

“Whatever you had won’t be as good as Izza’s cooking,” Faiza said. “You should eat again here.”

Hullah shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not? You’re too thin. You never were this thin when our son was alive.”

“I have guests,” explained Hullah.

“Guests?” Rafi’s voice sharpened. Despite his failing vision, there was nothing wrong with his wits. “Where have guests come from up here?”

“Who are they?” asked Faiza. “What tribe?”

“How many?” asked Izza.

“Two men,” Hullah said. “One of them at least is local, though I don’t know what tribe.”

A worried frown creased Rafi’s face. “Deserters?”

“Did they say what they were doing up here in this weather?” asked Faiza.

Izza swatted Hullah’s shoulder. “If they’re honest men, why didn’t you bring them along?”

Hullah held out her hands to stave off any more questions. “They’re sick,” she explained. “And that’s not all-”

“Have they brought news of the war?” Rafi asked. As a boy, he’d fought in the capture of Jerusalem and had a well-honed talent for embroidering war stories. Hullah, who’d heard all his stories many times, suspected all the old man’s tales had been a great deal less dramatic in real life. “Remember that I-“

Faiza plumped up a cushion and thwacked Rafi in the ribs. “Nobody wants to hear your stories, old man! Let the girl speak!”

Hullah swallowed. “They say the Crusaders have left Jerusalem. They’re retreating to the coast.”

Rafi cheered. Izza clapped her hands. Even pessimistic old Faiza looked pleased. They burst into another round of conversation. Rafi interrupted Faiza, who talked over Izza, who murmured to Hullah through the smoke. Then Faiza caught her sleeve. “Such good news! Yet you don’t look happy.”

“You know why,” said Hullah.

“At least if you marry ‘Asim you’ll be able to stay with us,” Faiza said practically.

Hullah shook her head. “I don’t want to marry ‘Asim. And that’s not all-”

She was just about to confess her suspicions to Faiza when the tent-flap opened to admit a stocky figure swathed in sheepskins. The joyful mood in the tent cooled immediately, as if someone had thrown a cup of water onto the fire. Hullah inched back into Faiza’s shadow and huddled into her shawl.

‘Asim looked at them and bunched his fists on his hips. “What is all this noise?” 

“Asim!” Rafi called, refusing to let ‘Asim’s foul temper spoil the mood. “Come and join us! Bring Saadet and the children. We are celebrating!”

“Celebrating?” ‘Asim scowled as he pushed his way into the tent. He was a stocky, dark man, with a scar on his face from a fight begun unwisely. A rangy black dog followed at his heels. “What on earth do we have to celebrate up here?”

Rafi offered ‘Asim a cup. “The Crusaders are retreating! They’ve left Jerusalem and headed back towards the coast.”

‘Asim took the cup and settled down next to Rafi. “How do you know that?” he asked. The dog flopped down next to Hullah with a sigh. She scratched its ears until it groaned, enjoying the unaccustomed caress.

“Hullah has guests,” said Rafi.

Hullah did her best to fade into the background.

“Guests?” ‘Asim’s face darkened as he glanced at Hullah. “What sort of guests?”

“Two travellers,” Hullah said reluctantly. “I was outside in the storm and saw them passing.”

The hue of ‘Asim’s face deepened. “Men?”

Hullah considered lying, but she knew there was no point. “Yes.”

“You should never have let them indoors!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” she snapped. ’Asim always brought out the worst in her. She knew he’d love to beat her into submission the way he had Saadet. “They’re injured.”

“So you offered to heal them,” ‘Asim said with a sigh. ““They’ll eat food we can’t spare, and they’ll probably die anyway. You should save your skills for the tribe. Don’t waste supplies on strangers.”

Hullah didn’t protest. She knew it was true.

Rafi bristled, squaring his shoulders as if he was still a young man. “Leave the girl alone,” he said. “Hullah isn’t your wife yet. That means she is still our responsibility.”

“You should teach her some manners. She should know better than to be alone with strangers.”

“I am a healer!”

‘Asim flicked his fingers dismissively. “You’re a woman.”

“And a widow. I have my honour.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Do you?”

‘Asim lifted his hand. Hullah leaned back, and Rafi rapped ‘Asim across the knuckles with the stick Faiza had used to poke the fire. “You will not come into my tent and strike my women,” he said fiercely. “Ever.”

The dog growled at ‘Asim, and he kicked it. “She won’t always be your woman, old man. Talib’s been dead and buried these four months.” He turned to Hullah. “ Your _iddah_ ends tomorrow. Did you think that I’d forgotten? If the Crusaders have gone we can head back to the lowlands to be married as soon as this storm stops.”

Faiza shook her head. “It’s bad luck to propose before her _iddah_ is over _,”_ she said. “You know that. Besides, if these strangers are wrong and we go down, we could be heading straight into a war. Decisions this important cannot be taken on a whim.”

Rafi nodded. “A good point,” he said. “We’ll go and see them.”

Hullah shook her head. “There’s more I haven’t told you.”

“What?”

She swallowed. “They’re-“

The tent rustled as Saadet pushed her head and shoulders through the flap. “Asim!” she said frantically. “I heard shouting. What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about,” ‘Asim said. “Go back to the tent.”

His words were pleasant enough, but his tone made Hullah’s skin crawl. Saadet bobbed her head and retreated.

“Have you told Saadet of this marriage plan of yours?” Rafi asked as Izza helped him with his coat.

‘Asim waved one hand. “She doesn’t object.”

 _She wouldn’t dare_ , thought Hullah. ‘Asim had long since beaten any sign of protest from Saadet.

‘Asim grinned . “Let’s go and see your guests.”

Hullah shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“They’re Assassins,” she said.

‘Asim recoiled. “Are you sure?”

“Sure enough,” she said. “They don’t pray. They’re missing fingers. They rode horses into camp. But what do I know? I’m only a woman.”

‘Asim scowled. “You won’t speak to me like that once we’re married,” he snapped. “What are Assassins doing here?”

“How should I know? I assume they’re on their way back to their castle.”

Faiza put her hand on Hullah’s arm. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“These Assassins,” Izza asked softly. “Are they being followed?”

Hullah shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You said they’re wounded?” ‘Asim said thoughtfully. “The Sultan’s men would pay good coin for news of the Assassins.”

Rafi poked the fire. “Don’t even think such a foolish thing,” he said. “It does no good for people such as us to get involved in politics.” He turned to Hullah. “Did they tell you their plans?”

She nodded. “They say they’ll move on as soon as the storm stops.”

Rafi nodded. “Good. Until then, we will say nothing to anyone.” He raised his head and raked them with his blinded gaze. “Do you understand?”

They all nodded. Faiza nodded curtly. Izza eagerly, Hullah with resignation. Only ‘Asim showed reluctance.

“ What about you, ’Asim?” asked Rafi. “This is still my tent, and my clan. For now, you will do as I say.”

‘Asim gazed at the old patriarch with eyes full of resentment. “For now,” he said. “But I don’t agree.” He whistled to his dog and rose to pull on his scarf. “And I’ll not stay where I’m not wanted.”

He marched out, leaving the tent-flap open behind him. The dog heaved itself with a sigh and sloped out into the storm after its master. Izza rose and tied the flap closed as soon as ‘Asim had gone.

“Good riddance,” Faiza said quietly. She patted the carpet by her side. “Rest, daughter. Tomorrow the storm will have died down and all these problems of ours will be over. For now, sleep.”

Hullah did as she was asked.


	2. Chapter Two

_Malik._

Malik struggled against a black tide.

He remembered the merciless cold. The kind of cold that would freeze the marrow in your bones before it killed you, that made everyone sane wrap themselves in blankets and hide behind strong walls. Now he found himself lying on his back with something warm and heavy pressed down on him. Heavy fabric flapped above his head as a strong wind sang in taut ropes. Somewhere a cockerel crowed. The air smelt of woodsmoke and sheep, a familiar scent that reminded Malik of his childhood.

A shadow darkened his eyelids. He opened his eyes, more from reflex than any conscious decision, and saw Ismail hovering above him, looking worried.

“I thought you weren’t going to wake up,” he said.

Malik sat up. Bandages tightened across his side beneath his robe, and the pain in his shoulder was enough to make him wish he’d stayed down. His head ached fiercely. He felt better than he had, but that wasn’t saying much.

He felt something hard and bitter tucked in his cheek. He pulled it out. _Willow bark,_ he thought as he recalled a fierce little woman with a gap between her front teeth.

Ismail glanced up at the black fabric flapping above his head. “The storm’s still raging on out there.”

“Then we stay here for now,” Malik said. They’d set out from Jerusalem in less-than-ideal circumstances, with no chance to carry out the small tasks required to ride hard and fight. The storm bought them time. Time to mend tack, sharpen blades, find supplies, and search for clean water. 

The thought of supplies made him look for the woman, so they could bargain for food. She wasn’t there.

“Where did she go?” he asked Ismail.

“The woman? I don’t know. But she left food. Want some?”

Malik nodded. The movement spiked pain across his temples and he winced. Ismail wrapped his sleeve around his hand and hung a wide pot over the fire. The thought of the woman alone out there in the storm worried Malik. She’d had a lost look in her eyes.

“Where do you think she’s gone?” he asked the novice, in a tone that left no doubt his question should be answered. 

Ismail shrugged. “She said she’d be back soon. I think she went to tell her clan.”

Malik nodded. In any normal highland clan guests of any sort would immediately be swamped with visitors eager for news. But this camp was very small, and the storm had likely kept them all inside. “She seems afraid,” he said.

Ismail nodded.

“Does she know that we’re Assassins?” They were too far south for Malik to assume the clan would be familiar with the Masyaf Order.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then she’s afraid of something else.”

Ismail looked thoughtful. “They wouldn’t be up here in winter if it wasn’t for the war,” he said cautiously.

Malik shook his head. “Not even that. See the tie on the door? It shouldn’t be broken. Someone’s used force.”

The tent-flap rustled and opened. Instead of the feminine figure Malik was expecting, this was a man. The new arrival was a stocky figure, with a pugnacious, scarred face. His lowered head reminded Malik of a ram his family had kept as a child.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. The pieces in Malik’s mind forged themselves together like a broken blade. He did not spare the stranger the courtesy of a bow.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, ironically. Despite his courteous tone, it was hard to miss the insult implied in his voice. The stranger bristled. “We’re traveling north. The mistress of this tent offered us shelter from this storm. Please, sit.”

“ _Is this your way?_ ” Ismail demanded in his native Farsi. “ _He’s very rude_.”

Malik shook his head and held up his hand for quiet. The novice sucked his teeth and went back to stirring the pot.

The strange did not sit. “My name is ‘Asim al-Ansari,” he said. “Next leader of this clan. The woman who helped you will soon be my wife.”

Malik shook his head. “Pleased to meet you, ‘Asim al-Ansari. My name is Malik. I’m from Safita-” a town near Masyaf Malik had used for an alias before. “This is Ismail.”

“Al-Qazvini,” Ismail said.

‘Asim frowned at them both. “Hullah is a healer,” he said, settling down on the mats. “She is often too trusting, and she always tries to help. She said that you were wounded. We don’t have much to spare and we can’t offer you shelter for long, but she will do what she can.”

“Of course,” Malik said more diplomatically than he would have liked. “But we’re grateful for her help.”

Asim ran a hand across the carpets. “She is skilled. If somewhat lacking in the womanly arts. My first wife will teach her how to keep a house. This place is filthy.”

The tent seemed clean enough to Malik, but he’d been wearing the same robe since before they left Jerusalem. “I see.”

“Perhaps you do.” ‘Asim balled his fists and propped them on his hips. “I’ll have her chaperoned in future. Don’t behave impiously. We may be shepherds, but we can fight when we have to.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Malik said gravely. Behind him, Ismail turned a snigger into a cough.

‘Asim glanced at Ismail in alarm. “She said you were wounded. Not sick. Is the boy contagious?”

Malik shook his head. He felt he owed it to Nusaybah to tell this man to treat his women better in future. Closer to Masyaf, the faintest veiled threat from an Assassin would have had men scurrying to change their ways. Here, he could be more direct.

“I don’t know much about women,” he said. “But sometimes it seems that the wisest thing you can do is let a woman make up her own mind and hope you’re lucky enough to keep her.”

‘Asim scowled. “What would you know, Safitan man? They say you share your wives up there.”

Malik wondered if the man _had_ heard of the Assassins. “They say many other things I would invite you to consider before you insult us.” he said. “For example, some men find pleasure in conquest. Like taking a woman. It’s not good to be that man. They invariably come to a bad end.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Malik shrugged. “I’ll leave that to you to decide.”

‘Asim cleared his throat and spat into the ashes of the fire. Then he rose. “You should leave as soon as this storm stops.”

Malik bowed with his hand on his heart. “We’re grateful for your hospitality,” he said, with no evident irony.

‘Asim gave him a suspicious look and ducked out of the door.

“I suppose we know what she is frightened of,” Ismail said as soon as ‘Asim left.

“Keep your voice down. You’d be surprised what you can hear outside tents.” Malik stretched. His side burned like fire. “But yes. We do.”

“Can’t we do something?”

Malik shrugged. Even that small movement hurt. “If he was a king we’d perhaps have some reason to kill him. But he’s just a man. Some men seek dominion whatever their standing. For every dictator there’s a hundred petty tyrants like ‘Asim. I can think of many reasons why he deserves to die but none that would satisfy the Creed.”

“Then what use is the Creed?” Ismail stirred the pot with more violence than Hullah’s stew warranted.

“To stop the Templars,” Malik said. That at least had become clear to him with Al Mualim’s defeat. Everything else was more confusing. “To preserve free will.”

“What use is free will if people turn their minds to evil?”

Malik sighed. “Now that, I can’t answer. You need to speak to Altaïr. Perhaps we can persuade the woman to leave. But traveling’s not easy for women. Look how much trouble we had.”

Ismail nodded and looked down at the pot. “Food’s ready.”

“Save some for her,” Malik said. There was far less stew than he remembered. He hoped that Hullah hadn’t let Ismail eat it all. Meat was a luxury up here. 

He ate sparingly, despite his body’s protests. Ismail set the stew by the fire to stay warm in the hope that Hullah would appear to enjoy the fruits of her labours. When there was no sign of her, Malik decided they might as well take advantage of the absence of women. He staggered when he stood and had to balance the heel of his hand on the ridge pole to be sure he did not fall.

“Help me outside,” he said to Ismail.

Outside, the sky was low and dark enough to hide the mountains. Their breath smoked in the freezing air as they pissed in the snow. The valley they’d come up was a plain of featureless white, which Malik knew from personal experience contained far too many rocks for easy travelling.

As he peered at the rocks he saw a little group of men with banners climbing up the pass. A file of soldiers, flying the double-headed falcon flag of Salah ad-Din. They saw the tents much sooner than he had. He saw them point. Then the storm closed in again.

Ismail inhaled sharply. “ _Dai_ , those are soldiers,” he hissed. “Let’s go.”

Malik shook his head. His stomach lurched, and he grabbed at a guy-rope for support. The ropes were taut and frozen solid beneath a thick covering of snow. He bent over and vomited up everything he’d eaten, then straightened, shivering. Blackness haunted the edges of his vision.

Ismail frowned. “You’re still not well,” he said. “How long before you can ride?”

Malik chose honesty over bravado. “A day. At least. At a walk. If I’m lucky. But you could go alone.”

“I won’t leave,” Ismail said. He added, less heroically, “Besides, I can’t. I don’t know the right way. “

Malik shook his head. He stared into the storm as the wind whipped at his robe. The soldiers were invisible in the gathering fog. He supposed it was too much to hope that they’d miss the camp entirely. At least the soldiers were Salah ad-Din’s troops, who spoke Arabic and didn’t see all Arabs as natural enemies. “We’ll have to stay. Once this storm dies down we should head down to the coast.”

“More soldiers there,” murmured Ismail.

“There are soldiers up here. At least we’ll be out of this snow. Now let’s get inside before we freeze. We can leave in the morning.”

“ _Dai_ ,” Ismail said in the way he had when he considered Malik was doing something particularly stupid or they were both about to die. “It _is_ morning,”

Malik wondered how long he had slept for. “Tomorrow morning,” he said firmly. “We’ll go then.”

The small tent seemed a haven after the freezing storm outside. Ismail fetched some snow and they melted it over the fire. After a while they heard the soldiers coming into camp. They must have called at the other tents first and for now, at least, the Assassins were not disturbed. Malik knew he should use the time to plan, but every thought seemed an effort. He retreated to his blankets and fell into the dark.

He woke to silence. Rays of glowing light lanced through the tent’s loose weave. Motes of dust and ash sparkled like fireflies in the beams. The light was magnified by the snow outside.

As he sat up, he realized the wind had died. His headache had gone with it. His thoughts were clear for the first time in days, and he was hungry. 

“You’re awake.” Ismail sounded relieved. The novice saw cross-legged by the fire with a pile of clean tack by his side. “There are soldiers everywhere out there.”

Malik dragged a hand through his hair. “How many?”

“Twenty,” Ismail said. “Though a few of them are prisoners. We could fight them, if we had to.”

Malik could think of only one way that kind of fight would end. We could,” he said. “But we wouldn’t win. Have any of them asked about us?”

Ismail glanced nervously through the loose weave of the fabric. “No. I think the woman told them you were sick. They haven’t come close. But you shouldn’t have given her your knife.”

They’d left Jerusalem with nothing but the horses and the clothes they stood up in. There had been plenty of times when Malik had doubted they’d leave with their lives, and he counted himself lucky. The blade he’d given Hullah had belonged to the _rais_ sent to escort them from the city. “You should have thought to steal a knife,” he said, “But two knives against twenty is still poor odds. Besides, you swore an oath to Salah-al-din. Remember?”

Ismail looked abashed. “I thought you forgot.”

“I might have,” Malik said, “but you shouldn’t.”

“The Creed tells us to hide in plain sight!” Ismail protested. “ _Taqiyya_ -“

“That’s not what _taqiyya’_ s for!”

As they argued, the tent flap flew open and Hullah crawled in. A rangy black dog followed at her heels, and a small boy wearing a sheepskin cloak and a mulish expression brought up the rear of the procession. Malik guessed he was the chaperone ‘Asim had promised, though exactly how a child was meant to protect Hullah was a mystery.

“There are soldiers outside,” she said, words tumbling together as they fought free from her mouth. “They in the hills searching for deserters from Salah ad-Din’s army, and they’re going to camp here for a while. I’ve told them you’re sick, so they won’t bother you.”

“Our thanks,” said Malik. “We won’t trouble you much longer. Who’s the boy? 

Hullah placed a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder as the child shoved the sheepskin back from his face. “This is Seid,” she said. “He’s ‘Asim’s youngest. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Malik said.

“I’ll check your wounds before you go,” Hullah said. She knelt beside the fire and took a bundle from her shawl. The bread inside was city food, and Malik knew the soldiers must have brought it.

“I boiled water,” Ismail offered.

“Then I’ll make tea,” Hullah said. 

The bread and tea sat easier in Malik’s stomach than the chicken had. He ate slowly, hoping at least to keep the food down. Ismail finished his meal well before Malik did. He sat back, pulled a copper _fals_ from his pocket and walked the coin across his knuckles.

The boy Seid watched with wide eyes as Ismail trapped the coin between his thumb and forefinger. The novice clenched his hand and made the coin vanish. Then he passed his hand across his face with a theatrical flourish and plucked the _fals_ from his ear.

Seid giggled. He pulled a nail from his sash and tossed his treasure to Ismail, who held the nail up to his eye. Ismail flicked the coin to Seid, who caught it in his palm. Ismail made the nail vanish, held up his hands and looked around with wide eyes. Then he inhaled sharply, rocked back on his heels, and sneezed into his hands. He pulled out the nail and held it up. Seid tucked the coin into his sash and grinned. 

Hullah motioned to Seid. “Give him back his coin.”

Ismail grinned. “Keep it.” He rose, moving smoothly despite his fading bruises, and collected the tack from the floor. “I’ll ready the horses.”

“Can I come?” asked Seid. Ismail couldn’t understand the mountain dialect, but Seid’s tone was unmistakeable. He shot a glance at Malik, who nodded, and jerked his head at Seid. “Come on,” he said, passing a bridle to the boy.

Seid grinned and left the tent with Ismail. The black dog sighed and followed.

Hullah opened her medicine chest and piled clean bandages by the fire. She added a handful of salt to a cauldron of hot water and stirred it vigorously. Then she looked at Malik and raised her eyebrows.

Malik unlaced his robe with his right hand and shrugged the sleeve down over his shoulder. He loosened the bandages himself. Then he averted his eyes to give her as much privacy as possible while she examined his wounds.

“You’re healing fast,” she said as she wrung out a cloth. “That’s good.”

Her face was intent as she scoured his skin. The cleaning hurt, but the pain was the sharp pain of scabs loosening rather than the hot pain of infected tissue. Shiny pink circles of healing flesh surrounded all his wounds.

As Malik watched her he realized that ‘Asim had no need to warn Hullah against impieties. He’d seen Hullah’s expression a dozen times on healers’ faces. To her, he was a problem to be solved, a collection of wounds that would either heal or fester. She handed him some willow bark and he chewed, grimacing at the bitterness. 

He’d finished the bark by the time Hullah was done. Malik held out his hand for the bandages, already wondering how he would tie them without Ismail’s help. Instead of handing them over Hullah drew back and stared at him intently. 

Malik wondered where she had hidden his knife. He was just about to ask when she sighed and looked at him for a long moment as if weighing something up. “What did you say your name was?”

“Malik,” he said.

“What clan?”

“I didn’t say.”

She frowned just a little, trapping her lip between the gap in her teeth. “Can you tell me?”

He decided the truth would cause no harm. “Al-Sayf.”

Hullah nodded. “Then I know you,” she said. “Your tribe was named for a rocky pillar called the Sword where your grandfather pitched camp. His name was Seid. You had four brothers. Zayd was older. He always said the Assassins took you and Kadar when you were young.”

Malik felt the familiar pain of Kadar’s death return. The loss of his brother had faded, like a scar, but it never truly vanished. “Kadar’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Zayd, too.”

“How do you know?”

“I was married to your brother when we were both just eighteen. A winter fever killed him within a year. Once Zayd was gone your mother took the others and went down towards the coast.”

It had been so long Malik didn’t even remember his family’s faces, but he knew he’d had more brothers. “What about Sa’ad?”

“I think-”

Malik heard ’Asim’s lean black dog bark behind the tent. He raised his right hand without thinking “Quiet!”

She hesitated, eyes widening.

“It’s all right,” Malik said. “I thought I heard a noise.”

The dog’s bark was followed by a yelp, then a long whine which trailed off into silence. When Malik listened hard, he heard something which could have been a muffled cry. He stood up. “Where’s-“

The tent flap burst open. The tip of a long sword entered first, quickly followed by a scowling soldier with the crested helmet of an ‘amid. Two more soldiers followed. One of them trod on a chicken, which fluttered away with a squawk. The last man held a knife to Ismail’s throat. Malik heard the chink of mail and guessed there were other men outside.

 _We should have left while we had the chance_ , he thought.

‘Asim pushed in behind the captive novice. There was no sign of his dog. He gave Ismail a wide berth and glared at Malik and Hullah. “Temptress!” he hissed. “Succubus! Whore!”

Hullah bristled. “That’s a lie, ‘Asim, and you know it.”

‘Asim stepped forwards, but the ‘amid silenced him with a glare. He pointed at ‘Asim and looked over at Malik. “This man says you are Assassins.”

Malik saw the ‘amid’s eyes rake across his side and knew the man had noticed his wounds. Moving slowly, he pulled his robe up to cover his shoulders and held up his hand so the soldiers could see he held no weapon. “We’re just travellers.”

The ‘amid frowned. “Do you have weapons?”

“No weapons,” Malik said. “We came here to shelter from the storm. Just like you.”

“They’re infidels. They don’t pray. They’re both wounded.” ‘Asim jabbed a finger at Ismail. “The boy’s missing a finger.”

Malik knew there was only one person who could have given ‘Asim that information. He heard Hullah gasp. He did not turn. This might get ugly and he didn’t want to draw attention to her.

“Are you Assassins?” the ‘amid asked again.

Malik shook his head. “We’re just travellers from Jerusalem. We don’t want any trouble. Just let us go and we’ll be on our way.”

“Do you deny it?”

“This man’s a liar.” Ismail glared at ‘Asim. “Of course we deny it.”

“It’s not true,” Hullah said bravely. “They came for healing.”

Malik knew her words would do no good. He watched the ‘amid assemble the pieces and knew what he’d do in his place. The soldiers must have caught Ismail readying their horses. They had no trade goods or baggage, and both Malik and Ismail bore obvious wounds. Now it was ‘Asim’s word against Hullah and Malik. He hoped Hullah’s defence wouldn’t cost her too dearly.

The ‘amid’s eyes narrowed. “Assassins lie.”

Malik tried to think of something he could say that wouldn’t incriminate them further. The Assassins were not in the habit of denying their true nature once it had been revealed, but he had no weapons to fight with. While he had no doubt Ismail would follow whatever he decided, fighting bare-handed against swords would only get them killed.

The ‘amid gave the sigh of a world-weary administrator. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. Cut off his hand.”

Malik rose, moving automatically into a fighting stance. He had no blade, but there were other options. He could try to steal a soldier’s sword. If that failed, there was a stack of wood by the fire, and some of Hullah’s pots were heavy. Cold dread lurched in his gut. What would he do without hands? If he couldn’t climb, couldn’t fight, couldn’t draw, would his life be worth living?

The ‘amid nodded in satisfaction. Malik knew he’d betrayed himself. A peasant would have cringed and babbled. A merchant might have tried a bribe. A soldier would have argued. Only an Assassin would have prepared to fight against all odds. “Not you,” the soldier said to Malik. He nodded to Ismail. “The boy.”

Another soldier came forwards. Together they wrestled Ismail to the ground in front of Malik. Ismail twisted and cursed, but the soldiers dragged his right hand out in front of him and pinned it to the ground.

The thought of losing his own hand had made Malik resolved to fight to the death. The thought of condemning Ismail to suffer as he had was somehow worse. “Wait!” he snapped, cursing himself. He might have as well have handed them a sword to wield against him. “ _Ismail, hold,”_ he said in Farsi. “ _Or they’ll kill you_.”

“ _They’ll kill us anyway_ ,” Ismail snapped in the same language.

“Speak so we can understand,” the ‘amid said pleasantly. “Or the boy loses his hand.”

Malik held out his hand. “It’s true,” he said, still hoping somehow to resolve this confrontation without bloodshed. “We are Assassins. My name is Malik. I’m from Masyaf. We carried messages from Jerusalem to the Crusader camp by order of Salah ad-Din. Those letters persuaded the Crusaders to retreat.”

“Assassin lies!”

“It’s not a lie!” Desperation edged Malik’s voice. “Listen. You said you know Assassins. Do you really believe we can’t go anywhere we set our minds to?”

A frown grew between the ‘amid’s eyebrows as he considered this new information. Malik knew if the ‘amid thought they were lying he’d probably kill them. He was painfully aware he could do little to prevent it.

“The boy has nothing to do with this,” he said. “He’s not even from Masyaf. Let him go.”

The ‘amid ignored him. “What’s your proof of this?”

“Only my word,” said Malik.

“Lies!” ‘Asim hissed.

“Shut up,” Malik snapped just as the ‘amid ordered “Silence!” They glared at ‘Asim, then each other.

“If I was lying,” Malik said to the ‘amid, “wouldn’t I’d say something plausible?

The ‘amid shook his head. “I find it hard to believe you did all this without reward. Surely the Sultan gave you something for your pains?” When Malik said nothing, the ‘amid turned to the soldier holding Ismail. “Moktar, the knife.” 

“Salah ad-Din gave us our lives,” Malik said reluctantly. “And safe passage from Jerusalem.”

It was true that the Assassins had delivered a message from Salah ad-Din to the Frankish King Richard, but Malik doubted the Sultan would thank him for telling the ‘amid that they’d uncovered a plot by Salah ad-Din’s secretary to prolong the war. Malik wasn’t sure what Salah ad-Din would do to him if he returned to Jerusalem, but he hoped he didn’t have to find out.

“Really?” The ‘amid’s frown deepened.

“It’s complicated,” Malik said.

“Too complicated for my liking,” said the ‘amid. “I’m taking you both back to Jerusalem. You can tell your lies to Salah ad-Din. See where they get you.”

“Just me,” Malik said. He knew the story of their dealings with the sultan would probably stop the ‘amid killing them immediately, but their captivity was unlikely to be pleasant. He had no intention of putting them both in the hands of Salah ad-Din’s men if he could help it. “Let the boy go.”

The ‘amid shook his head. “Why? I don’t believe a word you say, and you are in no position to give orders. It gives me great pleasure to frustrate Assassin plans after the unrest your kind have caused.”

“Unrest? Jerusalem would be under siege by now if not for us!”

“So you say,” the ‘amid said. “How many of our loyal men have your kind killed?”

“Was Talal truly loyal? What about Majd Addin? Those men were loyal only to themselves,” Malik wondered how to explain the Templars to the ‘amid. “There are forces at work here that you don’t understand.”

He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he should have held his tongue. The ‘amid’s face darkened. “I’ve heard enough.” he said. “Chain them up like the deserters.”

Malik inched back towards the fire. From the corner of his eye he saw Hullah retreat behind her medicine chest. “ _Where’s my knife_?” he asked her in shepherd’s dialect without taking his eyes from the soldiers. A single knife would be as much use as a toothpick, but perhaps he could manage to get himself killed instead of captured.

Hullah shook her head.

Malik wasted perhaps half a second wishing they’d left the night before regardless of whether he could ride. As the soldiers came around the fire he hit the man to his right in the face. He skinned his knuckles on the man’s nose-guard but broke several of his teeth. The soldier dropped his sword. Malik took a calculated risk and lunged for the weapon. That left his other side unguarded. The second soldier proved he’d noticed Malik’s wounds by punching him twice in the ribs. Malik missed the sword. He didn’t see what they did to Ismail because he was lying on the floor trying to remember how to breathe.

“Shall we chain them with the others?” somebody asked above the sound of his own pained gasps.

“Are you a fool? We’ll have a riot on our hands. Keep them separate from the others. If they fight, you know what to do.”

Someone lifted Malik up. He couldn’t see Ismail or Hullah. Cold air hit him like a slap in the face as they dragged him outside. The cold forced him into consciousness. When he looked up he saw the mountains looming over them like stern guardians.

‘Asim followed them from the tent. “Will your sultan reward us for this?”

The ‘amid snorted. “Reward? I wouldn’t count on it. The sultan hasn’t paid us for a month. Besides, those two will only cause me trouble.”

Malik doubted ‘Asim wouldn’t get his reward. The ‘amid didn’t seem the generous type.

The soldiers hauled the Assassins to a hastily cleared tent. Another soldier brought a pile of rusted fetters, the sort they used on slaves or deserters from Salah ad-Din’s army. The shackles should have been fastened to a dozen other men, but Malik saw no other prisoners. He wondered if the soldiers were afraid the Assassins would kill the deserters, or if the deserters would kill them.

The soldiers straightened out the chain. They’d brought neck chains as well as manacles, but manacles were useless on a man with just one hand. When they came towards Malik with the chain he retreated, and his shoulder-blades hit somebody’s scale breastplate.

“If you fight,” a voice said from behind him, “we’ll kill the boy.”

Malik hesitated. Ismail lunged up from the ground swearing in Farsi. The soldiers had fastened manacles around only one of Ismail’s wrists. The novice slammed the loose shackle up against the nearest soldier’s head. The guardsman reeled backwards. 

“Tell him to stop,” ordered the soldier holding Malik. “You are surrounded. There is no chance he can win.” He gripped the stump of Malik’s left arm and squeezed. Malik groaned as the soldiers mailed gloves pressed into the knot of scar tissue just below his shoulder. “You know as well as I do that he’ll bleed to death up here if we take off his arm.” 

“Ismail!” Malik called through clenched teeth. “Stop fighting!”

The novice spun the loose shackle on his wrist like a shield to keep the guards at bay. His eyes flicked towards Malik. The nearest soldier took advantage of Ismail’s inattention to advance, and Ismail backed towards the tent opening.

“Do you want to lose a hand?” Malik snapped. He switched to Farsi. “ _Stand down, Ismail! We’ll have our chance to escape later_.”

The soldier hit Malik across the face with the flat of his hand. “In Arabic!”

The thought of Ismail bleeding out in the snow while he watched lent Malik conviction. His voice snapped sharp as the edge of a blade. “Stay your hand, novice, until I give you leave!”

Ismail cursed vehemently and inventively. Malik, who’d thought himself fluent in Farsi, understood perhaps one curse word in three. Then the novice held up his hands and dropped to his knees. The soldiers shoved him to the floor and chained his wrists together. 

Someone took a handful of Malik’s hair and dragged his head backwards. Another soldier slid an iron collar beneath his chin. The spring-loaded collar closed with a click. Another soldier brought a long key that depressed the spring inside and held the collar closed. The metal was cold as ice, and Malik . knew the collar would rub his skin raw within minutes. He heard rattling as the soldiers ran a long chain through a ring at the back of the collar. The chain was heavy, and he pressed his hand on the floor to keep his balance. 

They chained him to Ismail and wrapped one end of the chain round the tent-pole. The loose end of the chain should have been attached to more collars, but instead another soldier brought several sets of loose manacles and some loose collars. The soldiers laced the manacles and collars onto the end of the chain and locked another set of fetters over the top. The metal was heavy, and it rattled whenever the Assassins tried to move. With nothing but rocks and low scrub as an anchor, the arrangement was better than nothing. Malik would have admired the soldiers’ ingenuity if it hadn’t made his life so difficult.

The soldiers tugged on the chains, cuffed them round the back of the head for good measure, and left them alone. 

“That could have gone better,” Ismail said through a swollen mouth as soon as they were alone.

“We’re both alive,” said Malik. “So it could have gone worse.”

Ismail grunted.

“If they were smart, they’d have taken our clothes.”

“If they were smart, they’d have searched me properly,” Ismail said, and spat Seid’s nail into his palm.


	3. Chapter Three

_Hullah._

Hullah watched as they dragged the Assassins outside. Her medicine box was still open, and she replaced the salves and bandages and threw the bloodstained water outside like she was in a dream.

She wished she’d never told ‘Asim about the Assassins. She’d thought the news would warn him off, but instead the soldiers’ arrival had given him enough confidence to denounce them.

She waited in the tent for a while, frightened but trying not to show it, doing unnecessary work just to keep her hands busy. Then she remembered the horses.

It took her some time to gather enough courage to creep out of her tent. The snow piled in front of the door was a mess of scuffed footsteps, the pristine, icy whiteness marked by long smears of mud and a spatter of crimson. The soldiers’ conical tents of undyed wool looked like icy peaks between the camp’s squat, black goat-hair tents. She saw no sign of the Assassins, but when she crept behind her tent she found their horses were still there. The horses were saddled and bridled, and they drooled long strings of green saliva round the bits wedged tightly in their mouths.

Hullah loosened the straps and pulled off the tack. To her relief, the horses tolerated her fumbling with mute patience. She found rope headcollars looped around the saddles, and though she was frightened the horses would run away once she removed their bridles, the horses made no protest as she slid the bits from their mouths and replaced their bridles with the headcollars.

She looped the reins and bridles over her arms and returned to the tent with her arms full of tack. When she kicked the door open and edged through the flap, she found ‘Asim waiting by the fire. Flames danced in his eyes like Shaitan’s fire as he poked at the embers. He looked up and laughed at Hullah’s dismay.

“Put that down,” he said.

Hullah slipped the bridles from her shoulders. She coiled the reins neatly on the saddle with shaking hands.

“Sit here,” ‘Asim ordered. His face was dark with anger. A vein pulsed in his temple.

Hullah sat. She was afraid of what would happen to her if she refused. ‘Asim leaned closer. Hullah edged away, shuffling back until her feet were twisted in her own bed-blankets. 

“I never thought you were a whore,” he said. “But now I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes. No man will want you now. What were you thinking?”

“I am no whore!”

“What else should I call you? I caught you touching a half-naked man. In front of all those people!”

You hypocrite, ‘Asim!” Hullah snapped. “As I recall you welcomed my skills when Seid broke his leg. You know there was nothing going on. Malik was my patient. I cannot heal from a distance.”

“That’s different!” ‘Asim gave a sour laugh. “I’ve spoken to Seid. He says you sent him away so you two could be alone.”

Hullah hoped ‘Asim hadn’t taken his anger out on Seid. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. ‘Asim would twist her words whatever she said. The best she could do was to tell him the truth. “I know Malik’s tribe. He was my husband’s brother.”

“Talib?” ‘Asim frowned. “How?”

“Not Talib,” she corrected. “My first husband Zayd. That makes us kin.”

He frowned. “I don’t care who he is. He’s not your husband and that’s all that matters. You were foolish to defend him. It’s a good job the soldiers didn’t take you seriously. If they thought we’d allied with Masyaf they’d kill us all. Is that what you want?”

Hullah shook her head mutely.

“Nobody in their right mind would ever claim a link to the Assassins. They’re heretics and outcasts. Fanatics who kill those who oppose them. If it wasn’t for them, we’d have ended this war.”

“That’s not what they said.”

“And you believed them? Are you a fool?”

Hullah shook her head again. 

“Well, it won’t matter much longer,” ‘Asim said matter-of-factly. “Your _iddah’s_ over. Hullah. If you behave like a whore, you’ll be treated as one. Get on your back.”

She stared at him. She’d known she had no choice, but she had expected him to wait until they were back down the mountains.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said roughly. Then he struck her, fast and brutal. Hullah reeled back onto her blankets and ‘Asim crawled towards her on hands and knees. Hullah got her hands beneath her and scuttled backwards. Her palm came down on something rigid hard enough to bruise her hand, and she remembered the Assassin’s knife.

Hullah slipped her hand beneath the blanket. The pads of her fingers slipped into the grooves worn into the battered leather hilt. She closed her hand around the blade and brought the knife up and around with as much force as she could muster into ‘Asim’s side. The blade bit flesh and sank in deeply. Pulling it out required more force than she’d expected. Slick blood soaked her hands. She dropped the knife and immediately lost the weapon in the blankets.

There was so much blood she’d thought she’d killed him, but as she crept closer she heard his pained breathing. His hand went to his side where she’d struck him. “You bitch!” he growled. Then he lunged for her throat. His hands tightened and forced her head backwards.

Hullah wasted a moment tugging at ‘Asim’s hands before she realized she was never going to loosen his grip. She wasn’t strong enough to bend back his thumbs. His hands circling her neck left her arms free to search for the knife. At first her scrabbling fingers touched nothing but rough fabric, but as she flailed she slit the pad of one finger on the blade. The sudden pain told her the weapon’s location.

She snatched up the knife and punched the dagger into ‘Asim’s back as hard as she could. The blade sank in just below the arch of his ribs. He bucked so hard that Hullah let go of the hilt despite all her resolve. Then he gasped. His hands loosened. At last he shuddered and lay still.

Hullah drew a ragged breath. She got her arms up and placed both her hands on ‘Asim’s chest, but he was far too heavy to push off. Instead she stretched out one arm and one leg, slithered like a snake from under him and lay gasping by the fire. In the sudden silence she heard nothing but her own breathing and the occasional pop of a guttering flame. Her chest heaved. Her throat felt tight, and her arms and hands were bathed in sticky blood.

The fire’s embers bathed the tent in sullen red light. ‘Asim’s face was turned towards her. His dead eyes glared at her accusingly beneath thick eyebrows. Whatever malevolent spirit had possessed him had long since fled. The knife jutted from his back like a tent-pole in the ground.

Hullah wondered what would happen to Saadet and her children. ‘Asim hadn’t been a good husband, but there were many things a man could do that a wife couldn’t. And old Rafi was blind. Then she wondered what would happen to her.

She had no idea what to do. If she gave herself up, the judges might find in her favour. Killing a man who had tried to rape her might be considered a form of _jihad_. If It wasn’t, she’d be stoned to death. It seemed to her that the best thing she could do was to take the knife and use it on herself. Then she thought that that was what ‘Asim would have wanted her to do, and she hesitated.

The tent-flap rustled in the wind. When Hullah looked up she saw the Assassins standing in the half-dark by the door. The wounded one-Malik-took in the scene with a glance. The boy knelt down by ‘Asim’s corpse.

“Dead?” the wounded one asked.

The boy nodded. “He’s dead,” he confirmed.

“What happened?”

“Bled out inside,” said the boy with a professional air. “Looks like she caught him in the kidney. Quick and quiet. Good job.”

The wounded one gave the boy a filthy look. “I wasn’t asking _you_.”

Hullah realized she’d stumbled on the only people in the camp that wouldn’t judge her for killing a man. She opened her mouth but found no words to explain.

The two Assassins exchanged glances.

“Get the horses,” the wounded one said to the boy. He turned to Hullah. “Are they still there?”

She nodded, shuddering.

The boy collected the tack from the floor and left without a word. The Assassin looked at the dead man and frowned. Then he knelt and held out his hand with the palm open towards her. He moved cautiously, and he still looked a little grey, but he no longer seemed either feverish or exhausted.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. Did he hurt you?”

Hullah shook her head. “He tried,” she said.

“Then he deserved it,” he said.

She nodded, suddenly weary. Though she had dreaded marrying ‘Asim, she feared the consequences of his death more than she’d feared the thought of marriage. She stared numbly at the fire but saw only ‘Asim’s body in her mind, the knife sticking up from his back like a flagpole.

“Your knife,” she said.

“Leave it where it is,” he said. “Come with us. Masyaf does not welcome women, but they’ll have you if you ask.” He looked ruefully at his missing arm.” We always need healers. And despite this respite, this war does not seem to end any time soon.“

“And if I won’t?”

“It’s up to you,” he said. “Now that the war is gone you can go down from the hills and search for better weather. Or if you want, I know a place in Jerusalem. There is a shop there on Pearl Street, along the stretch they call Bookseller’s Row. The rent is paid until the end of the month, and nobody will bother you. If you want work, go to the market. Cross the square to the south, walk for a hundred paces and you'll find a Jewish doctor at the house with the blue door. His name’s Ben Salman, and he owes me a favour. Tell him Malik sent you. He can find you work. If he won’t help, go to the Bab Ourika gate, and find a house called Dar Khalifa. Speak to the lady there.”

_Jerusalem_ , Hullah thought, remembering Rafi’s eyes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be in debt to the Assassins. “Why are you helping me?”

He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “We do what we can.”

Hullah gave him a hard look. “Is that true?”

The Assassin shrugged again. “Mostly. You heard me tell the soldiers we uncovered a plot that would lead to renewed war. That’s true. But I wasn’t alone. A woman helped me. When Salah al-din discovered this, he exiled me for _zina_.”

“She’s married, then?”

“Not to me,” he said. “I love her, but I can’t return. I don’t know if she’s in danger. But I can help you. You must decide. Soon the sultan’s soldiers will discover that we’re missing, and we must be on our way before they do.”

Hullah stared at ‘Asim’s corpse. She didn’t feel that she could leave. Still, she feared to stay. If she left, who would look after Rafi? And Faiza. And what about Saadet, and the children?

She made her decision. “I’ll stay,” she said.

He nodded. “It’ll take courage. Wait until we’ve gone. As long as you can. Then scream. By then, they’ll know we’ve escaped. They’ll ask what happened. Tell them we surprised you here. That one here-” he jerked his head at ‘Asim, “-defended you. We killed him and rode off.”

“But-”

“We’re dead if they find us. One more body will be of little importance.”

The tent-flap opened. Hullah flinched, but it was only the boy. “Malik,” he said urgently, “we must go.”

He did not rise. “Wait as long as you can,” he said, holding her gaze, “but scream as soon as you hear a disturbance. You don’t want them to find you like this without a good explanation.”

“I can’t have you take the blame,” she said.

“Why not? We’re used to it,” His sudden grin made him look much younger, and she realized that she’d never seen him smile. Then his expression changed and turned more serious. “But if you lie, then you can’t change your story. You can’t tell anyone the truth. Not his wife, not your companions. Once you do, the secret will be out.”

She shook her head. “I’m good at keeping silent.”

“Malik,” the boy said again, “the horses are ready. They’ll find us if we wait much longer.”

He lingered despite the boy’s warning. “One thing.”

“Yes?”

“What happened to my family?”

She wished they had more time. “As far as I know your mother’s still alive. Her eldest-Sa’ad, I think-died when he was young. Once Zayd died she took the youngest boy and her three girls and headed to the coast to find her people. That’s all I know.”

“Three girls? There were four.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“ _Malik_ ,” said the boy from the door, urgently. “I can see lights.”

He nodded and rose. “Then that will have to do. Safety and peace, lady. Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Ride safely,” said Hullah. “I don’t want my work to go to waste.” 

“It won’t,” he said. “I promise. Farewell.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The boy raised the flap of the tent, and the Assassins were gone, as quickly and quietly as they’d arrived.

Hullah waited for as long as she could before raising the alarm. When she heard men shouting, and dogs barking she bit her lip and screamed.

When the soldiers ripped open the tent-flap she didn’t have to try too hard to add panic to her voice. The men gave ‘Asim’s corpse a cursory examination and listened to Hullah’s stammering explanation..

“They can’t have gone far,” the ‘amid said. He sent one of his men to tell Rafi that ‘Asim was dead, and summoned Faiza to care for Hullah. Then fully half the soldiers’ camp set off after the Assassins.

Hullah threw herself into Faiza’s arms and wept while the older woman made comforting noises into her hair. They thought she was upset because of ‘Asim’s death and, mindful of the Assassin’s warning, she did nothing to disabuse them.

The soldiers came back late that night, empty -handed and cursing. They swore that the Assassins were sorcerers who had vanished into thin air, devils sent straight from Hell by Shaitan to plague God-fearing men.

Despite their complaints, the guardsmen helped the tribe bury ‘Asim, and Hullah said prayers by his grave with the other women. She noticed that Saadet did not seem upset, despite-or perhaps because of-all ‘Asim represented to the tribe. 

They all gathered round Rafi as the old man finished the _salat_ and raised his blind eyes to the hills. “What shall we do now?” he asked the air. “Where shall we go?”

“Jerusalem,” Hullah said.

Faiza frowned. “What shall we do there?”

Saadet moaned. “We will be beggars,” she said, rocking the baby in her arms.

“Not necessarily,” Hullah said, squeezing Saadet’s shoulder. “There’s a house for us there, and someone to welcome us in.”

Nobody in the tribe raised their voice against her. The winter wind was quiet. The sky was lapis blue, as if the new-found peace extended to the heavens. Hullah squeezed her eyes tight shut and prayed the peace would last. Not forever, she knew, but long enough.

They packed the tents and headed to Jerusalem.

***

Fanart- two thumbnailed comic pages courtesy of Caroline. Guess which scene this is! Also, Ismail is hot? Who knew!

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as ‘Assassin’s Creed: Hateful Eight But Not Hateful, And Also, Not Eight’ Anyway I wanted to write something about the Assassins being stuck in a difficult situation in a snowstorm from a more or less normal character’s point of view. The muse has very specific requirements.  
> The fic does have fanart (email me if you can’t see it and give enough of a damn to get in touch, there’s been some problems with the image hosting) by the amazing caroline. This one’s in the form of a short sketch comic from Chapter Two.


End file.
